Born Evil - I Believe

The neighbors thought they knew poor, but they didn’t. Paul listened to Mrs. Walters complain about not having enough coffee to last until Friday, as she placed bowls of mashed potatoes and green beans next to the fried pork chops on the table. Freshly churned butter sat next to steaming loaves of freshly baked bread. Paul’s mouth watered as he waited for an invitation to dinner. Instead, Mrs. Walters impatiently helped him out the door. Angry, he shoved his hands inside the pockets of his thin coat. Frigid north wind, laced with sleet, stung his face as he picked his way across snow covered fields toward home. With each step, Paul’s anger began its metamorphosis into something much more menacing.

Paul Chapman knew poor. To the Chapman family poor meant waking up with snow filtering in through cracks in the roof. Poor meant a supper of gravy made with water, poured over a thin crust of bread. Poor meant going to bed hungry, waking up hungry, and knowing there wouldn’t be a hot breakfast to eat before donning hand-me-down coats to do chores in sub-zero temperatures. That night, Paul licked his plate to get every last drop of gruel, resenting those with full stomachs. He went to bed hungry, and his anger grew stronger.

Meals during the summer months were much tastier. There would be fresh fruits and vegetables to fill their empty stomachs, along with the promise of fried chicken on Sundays. Of course, before the chicken found its way to the skillet, someone had to wring its neck. Who would it be? Faye was too little, Jack too soft hearted, Marion hated chickens, but Paul, Paul seemed to enjoy the task. Some might say he enjoyed it a little too much. Perhaps it was the way everyone ran away screaming when the headless chicken took up the chase. Maybe that’s why Paul always volunteered.

Paul didn’t use a hatchet. He liked the feel of his fingers clamped around the chicken’s neck. He would squeeze enough for the bird to realize it couldn’t breathe, and then twist hard. The sound of bones breaking gave him a rush. He took pleasure from the sound of death. Once he separated the head from its body, he plopped the body on the ground, laughing with glee, as the headless chicken chased his siblings around the yard.

As Paul got older, he hunted farther from home. Neighbors noticed their chickens were missing, and then baby pigs, followed by calves. Paul was never a suspect. The sheriff thought tramps from the nearby railroad were stealing the animals for food. Yet someone knew Paul’s secret, but didn’t tell.

Twenty years later…

Faye Chapman closed the paper and handed it to her brother. Jack looked at the headline one more time, Serial Killer Apprehended in Sausalito.

“There must be some mistake. Paul isn’t capable of such horrific acts.”

“Yes he is,” Faye said softly.

“How can you think our brother is capable of killing innocent women?”

“Remember the Walters family from back home? Virginia Walters didn’t mysteriously disappear. Paul killed her.”

Jack stood, rolled his fists into balls, “Liar! Why would you say such a thing?”

“I saw him do it. She was walking into town, crossing the river bridge. Paul came up behind her, knocked her down, and strangled her.”

“Then why didn’t anyone ever find her body?”

Faye stared at the wall, remembering, “Paul shoved her into the river.”

“No, the river was too shallow. Someone would have found her.”

“The water level was abnormally high and the current strong. It was the year the river flooded Estherville. Remember?”

“What did he say when you confronted him?”

Faye looked into her brother’s eyes, “I didn’t. He had the same look on his face as when he strangled the chickens. I was afraid of him then, and I’m still afraid of him. If I hadn’t hid in the bushes, I think he would have killed me, too.”

“Why do you suppose he killed Mrs. Walters?”

“We’ll probably never know, but I believe it's because he was born evil.”

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I'm Late, I'm Late, For a Very Important Date

This is a work of fiction, well...most of it!

Immediately after George Clooney swore his undying love for me and lowered his lips to mine, I woke up. Another fantastic dream interrupted by the incessant beeping of the alarm clock. I hit the snooze button, rolled over, and squeezed my eyes shut. By then, the fickle George had moved on to his next conquest. I threw back the blankets and headed for the shower. Today was the day I would present my advertising ideas to the Muckity Mucks from Douglas Morton Company. I couldn’t be late or they would give the account to Jonas, my arch rival.

Of course the doors were frozen shut on my piece of crap car, so I dumped a pitcher of lukewarm water along the edge where the roof meets the door. After a few healthy tugs, the door swung open, knocking me off my feet. I got up, brushed the snow off my coat, and climbed in. I turned the key while saying a silent prayer the thing would start on this icy, cold morning. After a few complaints, the engine came to life.

Reversing was easy, going forward wasn’t. I pushed on the accelerator, but instead of going forward, the car continued backward, bumping into Old Man Tate’s mailbox. I heard a crash and a crunch. I would stop by after work and offer to pay for the damage. Once the car found the grass on the side of the road, I was able to pull forward, slowly. After only one 360° turn, I made it to the main road. As I waited at the stop sign, one of those nice State trucks flew by, spraying a wall of salt water slush over my car. I switched on the wipers and turned right. The highway was clear, so I pushed harder on the accelerator. I checked my watch again. Baring any difficulties along the way, I would be on time.

The second the thought of being on time came into my head, I heard the train whistle. Unfortunately, the tracks crossed the highway at the edge of town. Since the speed limit was 30 mph and our equivalent of Barney Fife loves to catch speeders, I kept my foot from smashing the accelerator into the carpet. It’s a good thing, too. As I passed Mrs. Barrett’s Emporium, I saw Barney hiding behind his favorite cedar tree. I waved. He didn’t wave back. The train whistle blew again.

The minute Mr. Fife disappeared in my rear view mirror, I sped up. I could see that train’s eye getting closer. I feared the gates would close before I reached the crossing. So far, so good. I crossed my fingers and focused on the McDonald’s sign on the far side of the tracks. The faster we went, the more that old bucket of bolts rattled and banged. If only it would hold together until I snagged the Morton account. A mere twenty feet from the crossing, the red lights began flashing and the gates started down, missing my car by an inch or two. As the road curved around, I shook my fist at that nasty old train. Seems it’s always lurking around trying to cut me off. This time I was the victor!

Only six more miles and I would pull into the parking lot of the spectacular Triton Towers, the home of Douglas Morton Company. Old faithful voiced its complaint by emitting a loud knocking sound, but that old car picked up the pace. Two miles outside of town, traveling at a steady pace of 80, okay, probably closer to 90 mph, I picked up a tail. I checked the time. If I slowed down, I would be late and I couldn’t afford to be late.

A combination of red and blue lights flashed behind me. I passed two more Mayberry types. They lit up like Christmas trees and fell in behind Mr. Fife. We were officially a high speed parade. By the time I could see the parking lot, I heard the whomp, whomp, whomp of helicopter blades overhead. I turned into the entrance on two wheels and came to a screeching halt in front of the building.

Grabbing my briefcase, I hopped out of the car and raced up the steps. I heard tires squealing behind me, but didn’t take the time to see how far back they were. I skipped the elevator and took the stairs two at a time. By the time I reached the fourth floor, I could feel Barney’s hot breath on my neck. Instead of stopping at reception, I shoved my way into the conference room, just as the clock struck nine. I wasn't late, I was right on time.

Before I could pat myself on the back, Barney caught my arm. He whirled me around, slammed me up against the table where all the Muckity Mucks were seated, and clicked the handcuffs in place.

Mr. Morton himself was seated at the head of the table, “Ms. Fairchild I presume.”

Between wincing and trying to breathe, I gasped, “Yes, sir.”

“I’m impressed with your realistic presentation. Hiring policemen was a brilliant move. I think your advertising ideas are perfect for our new line of sports cars. Have the contract on my desk tomorrow morning.”

***

After being read my rights, photographed, and fingerprinted, Barney allowed me to make one phone call.

“Mr. Winslow. I got the account. Now, would you send someone down here to bail me out?”

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Mr. Muldoon Goes to Vegas

The television ads say, “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.” Calvin was about to test truth in advertising. This was his first foray into the world since his wife, Mae, passed away last year. Their marriage lasted nearly forty years. It wasn’t all bliss, but for the most part, they were happy. Calvin loved his wife, mourned her, yet he was looking forward to kicking up his heels. After all, he was a single man.

Taking a vacation alone wasn’t a snap decision. At first he thought about going to Porter Lake, where he took Mae two years ago, or to the mountains. But, Calvin wanted to go somewhere new and different. His plan was to ditch all the widows who suddenly seemed to think he was Robert Redford. He craved excitement, and not the kind he would get watching Madeline show him her boney, wrinkled knees. Madeline even went so far as to place her hand in a rather unexpected place during a game of Bridge. Everyone thought Calvin was having a seizure. In reality, he was merely trying to avoid Madeline’s curious exploration. His manic reaction was more than a little difficult to explain to the others, who insisted on calling the paramedics. Fortunately, he was able to dissuade them before Harvey actually dialed 9-1-1

Calvin wouldn’t have considered going to Las Vegas a mere six months ago. It was a decision made during a poker game at Walter’s house. Calvin was having a streak of bad luck. He looked down at his poker hand, all small numbers, none matched. Bernard, Walter, and James were winning. Calvin was losing. He was down at least sixty cents. The cigar smoke made his eyes burn, and the beer tested his weak bladder. Calvin folded his pathetic cards, laid them on the table, and excused himself. On the way to the bathroom, he stopped in the living room to say hello to Effie, Walter’s wife. The television was on. Effie was napping in her chair, so he didn’t disturb her. It was then he saw the commercial: Dancing girls, bright lights, laughter, money, and bottomless cocktail glasses. Calvin raised a bushy eyebrow. Sin City. And the decision was made.
Calvin’s flight arrived at McCarran International Airport at one p.m. Picking up his carry-on bag, Calvin made his way through the crowded airport. Someone bumped into him, causing him to bump into a pretty brunette, nearly knocking her over. He grabbed her left arm and right breast, accidentally, to steady her. He smiled and said “I’m sorry” when he really wasn’t. He might have been if it wasn’t such a pleasurable experience. As he watched her walk away, Calvin tripped over a planter near the exit, stumbling backward into a hot Nevada day.

A line of shuttles and taxi cabs filled the street. Calvin looked for the shuttle to his hotel. He would be staying at the magnificent Peruvian Palace, a newly built monstrosity on the far side of the Luxor. He stepped into a rectangle marked off by yellow lines, stopped next to the Peruvian sign, and deposited his bag on the concrete. He waited as shuttle bus after shuttle bus came and went. None carried his hotel’s insignia. A stretch limo stopped in front of him, blocking his view of the street. Calvin saw a shuttle bus pause beside the limo, but it kept going. He was beginning to think his choice in hotels wasn’t so great, when the limo driver reached down to pick up his bag. He started to snatch it back. Understanding Calvin’s suspicion, the driver asked, “Are you staying at Peruvian Palace?” The driver held the door while Calvin climbed into his luxury ride. Obviously, the Palace was a pretty swanky place.

After settling in for the ride to the hotel, Calvin discovered he wasn’t alone. Beside him was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. She looked as if someone had taken Dolly Parton, stretched her into Gisele Bundchen, and sprinkled her with a little of Madonna’s attitude. And she was smiling at him. Not only was she smiling, she seemed to be offering him a glass of champagne. When Calvin didn’t reach for the glass, the woman spoke, “Champagne, Mr. Mulder?”

“Sure,” Calvin said as he reached for the glass. Calvin’s last name was really Muldoon, but he didn’t correct her, he couldn’t, he was too busy staring at the abundance of her...or staring at the emerald pendant resting between...he forced himself to ignore that freckle on her left...dare he say it? Breast! Calvin forced those pleasing images from his mind and looked up into smoky blue eyes. At that moment, he wished he looked more like Cary Grant than Rodney Dangerfield. Cary Grant wouldn’t need words for a woman to fall in love with him, but since Calvin was no Cary, he was forced to come up with the perfect pick up line. Unfortunately, “Thank you,” was all he could think of to say.

The woman leaned closer, resting her hand on his knee as she proceeded to speak in a low, Marilyn Monroe whisper, “So, Mr. Mulder, Do you have a first name?”

“Calvin. Call me Calvin,” he said, gulping his champagne, while leaning closer to the door. He unbuttoned the first button of his shirt and stretched his neck. He felt as if he were suffocating, in a good way.

“Hi Calvin, I’m Heather.”

The breathy H sounds slipped through her lips, fluttering lightly against his neck. He quickly re-buttoned the first button of his shirt and shifted even closer to the door, all the time wondering why she acted as if he really were Cary Grant. He enjoyed Heather’s attention, yet she was a little scary. She was even more forward than Madeline.

Fortunately, the ride to the hotel was a short one. The limousine pulled up beneath the portico. A red coated bellman came out to open the car door, while the limo driver retrieved Calvin’s bag from the trunk. Once Calvin and Heather were out of the car, the hotel bellman removed his hat, and with an exaggerated flourish, bowed so deeply his head nearly touched the concrete. Calvin dug into his pocket and brought out two five dollar bills. He handed one to the bellman and one he exchanged for his bag. Curiously, the driver didn’t seem to have a bag for Heather, and Heather didn’t seem to have anywhere else to go. Instead of going inside to check in, she moved closer, slipping her right arm through his left, clinging to Calvin as if he belonged to her.

Heather didn’t disappear until Calvin stopped at the front desk. He thought she had gone to her room until he punched the elevator up button. That’s when she reappeared, once again curling herself around his arm. Inside the elevator, Calvin punched the tenth floor button, and turned to Heather, “Which floor?”

Tipping her head to the side and giving him a slow wink, she said, “Ten is perfect.”

Calvin checked the room number on his key card and the room numbers on the wall. He turned right. Still clinging to Calvin’s arm, Heather turned right as well. Calvin stopped, “What’s your room number?”

Heather blinked slowly, “I’m in the room next to yours.”

Calvin started walking again. His heart flipped over a time or two before he said, “Oh.” Perhaps this was his lucky day.

After seeing Heather to her door, Calvin went to his room, which was far more luxurious than he would have imagined for a mere one hundred thirty dollars a night. There was a sunken living room with floor to ceiling windows which promised a magnificent view of the lights along Las Vegas Boulevard. The furnishings were right out of one of those home decorating magazines Mae always thumbed through at Home Depot. To his left were double doors leading into the bedroom. He wondered how he would be able to burrow beneath all the pillows propped against the headboard. On the right he saw another set of double doors. They were locked. Calvin suspected these doors led to Heather’s room. He raised one bushy eyebrow, and then stopped his mind from going there, at least not right now. Right now he had some gambling to do. “If you’re going to sin, sin big,” Calvin said, as he took a hundred dollar bill out of his wallet, kissed it, and set it next to his room key. It was time for a shower.

After his shower, Calvin dressed in his best vacation outfit. He stood in front of the mirror, turned right, and then turned left. He liked the way the yellow and blue Hawaiian shirt matched his yellow walking shorts. He turned sideways and sucked in his rather rotund middle. Maybe I’ll go on a diet when I get home, he thought. Calvin plopped a cream colored Cabana hat on top of his head, smiled, and winked at himself in the mirror. He was ready.

After a leisurely dinner at the buffet, Calvin walked through the casino with his mouth open. Never had he seen such opulence, or seen so many people in one place. He passed by the slots, the million dollar machine, blackjack tables, finally coming to a stop in front of the roulette wheel. This was his game. He could feel it. A man in a black casino jacket stopped beside Calvin. His voice was low, almost demanding, “We have a private salon ready for you Mr. Mulder. Follow me.” Calvin followed.

Four hours later, Calvin was a little tipsy from all the free drinks, but still winning. He lost a few times, but now he was up, way up. He couldn’t believe how hot he was. No matter what number or color he called, that little ball hopped right in there. As near as his fuzzy brain could figure, he had about five hundred thousand of the casino’s money. It was time to quit while he was ahead. He slugged down his last whisky sour and turned away from the table.

As Calvin cashed in his chips, Heather made her appearance. “Well, aren’t you the lucky one?” She snuggled up against Calvin’s side, “I think you need to celebrate.”

Calvin squeezed Heather against him, “I think you’re right.”

With her finger, Heather slowly traced the largest flower on his chest, while standing on her tip toes to whisper in his ear, “You go on up to the room. I’ll order some food and a bottle of champagne. Don’t start the party without me.” She blew him a kiss and walked off. Calvin watched.

Calvin, his newly discovered ardor, and his winnings were escorted to his suite by security. The guards walked straight into the bedroom closet, opened the safe provided by the hotel, and placed the money inside. After giving Calvin the combination, they left.

Unsure as to whether he was supposed to wait inside his room or Heather’s, Calvin unlocked his side of the double doors and turned the knob. The doors opened into a a room filled with the soft glow of candlelight. He decided Heather meant for him to wait in her room, and went inside. Heather’s bedroom was the mirror image of his. He sat down on the bed and leaned back against the mound of pillows. He adjusted himself to what he perceived to be his sexiest pose, and settled in to wait.

Too many toddies had Calvin yawning. He was about to doze off when the telephone rang. He almost answered it before he remembered this wasn’t his room. The answering machine clicked on and he heard a male voice say, “The mark has the money. Mulder is the leak. You know what to do.”

Calvin sat up. Was he the mark? He had the money. Heather called him Mulder. Was she mispronouncing his name…or…how did she know his name anyway? Even the desk clerk thought he was Mr. Mulder and said his room was taken care of. At the time he thought the man meant from the credit card he used when making the reservations. Leak? Leak? They thought he was the leak. They were going to kill him.

Without another thought, Calvin went back to his room, carefully locking Heather’s door behind him. He ran into the bedroom closet and opened the safe. After stuffing the money inside his travel bag, Calvin ran toward the door. As his hand reached for the knob, he heard a light knock, “Honey, open up. It’s little ol’ me.”

In a panic now, Calvin searched the room for another means of escape. He ran behind the sofa and looked outside. It was too far down to jump, but fortunately the building was an exact replica of early 1900's architecture, which sported a fire escape. He unlatched the window and climbed out. Being careful to close the window behind him, he took off down the stairs. By the time he reached the street, he was gasping for breath. He feared having a heart attack and dying before he could spend a penny of his winnings.

Calvin stumbled around the corner and found refuge behind a row of shrubs. He sat down to catch his breath. He tensed when he heard running footsteps and Heather’s voice, “He’ll be on the next flight to Boston. Let’s go.”

After the car squealed off into the night, Calvin hailed a cab, “Greyhound bus station please.”

Six months later

What happened in Vegas stayed in Vegas. Calvin didn’t worry about being followed. Everyone in Vegas knew him as Mr. Mulder. Calvin religiously read the Boston papers, eventually seeing Calvin Mulder’s obituary. It seems Mr. Mulder was found floating in the Charles River. Apparently he slipped while fishing along the riverbank and drowned.

Calvin Muldoon was happy to be back in Phoenix. Even though he had enough money to go anywhere his heart desired, Calvin no longer felt the need to travel, alone or otherwise. He was happy to spend time with friends, and play bridge. Now, instead of having a seizure, Calvin winked at Madeline when her roving hand found his thigh. Madeline would never be a super model, but Calvin decided wrinkled, boney knees didn’t look so bad after all. He reached under the table and placed his hand in a rather unexpected place. Madeline nearly fell off her chair. Everyone thought she was having a heart attack. Harvey picked up the phone and dialed 9-1-1.

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The Girl in the White Sweater

I knew instantly she wasn’t a happy woman. Maybe it was the way she carried herself as she cut across the park toward Scottsdale Street. Her shoulders slumped forward, her eyes looked down. She walked slowly, deliberately, toward an unknown destination. She had both hands stuffed down in the pockets of a pair of rumpled cargo pants. The sweater she wore would have been white when it was new, now it carried the stains of time. Still she didn’t appear dirty as most street people do. I left my seat in the gazebo, picked up my briefcase, and followed.

The young woman turned north on Scottsdale, and then east onto Brennan. She looked both ways before cutting across the street mid-block to disappear inside a disintegrating building. Several of the windows were broken, replaced with plywood to keep out the rain. Graffiti artists added brilliant splashes of color to the building’s otherwise dingy façade. The building was condemned.

I crossed Brennan at the crosswalk, followed the sidewalk, and stopped at the entrance to the building. The door wasn’t shut. The latch was broken. I wasn’t expecting a warm welcome. I knocked anyway. The sound echoed back to me from the empty room beyond. No answer. I knocked again. I waited a minute or two. When I didn’t hear approaching footsteps, I pushed the door open. It squeaked loudly, as if protesting my intrusion. I ignored the noise and stepped inside the abandoned hotel.

The room smelled of musty carpet, rotting food, and urine. Trash littered the floor. Old clothes were heaped against the far wall. A staircase wound upward. I called out, “Hello. Is anyone here?” I knew she was inside somewhere, but she didn’t answer. I started up the stairs. Some of the treads were cracked, a few were missing. I picked my steps carefully as I made my way upstairs. At the top, I turned left down a long hallway.

“Hello? Mary?” Only silence answered my call.

I pushed open the first door, the second, and the third. The fourth door was latched. I knocked. Footsteps crept toward the door. I saw movement on the other side of the peephole viewer. “Mary? Mary Pickford? Is that you?”

“Who are you?”

“My name is Anthony Michael.”

“How do you know me?”

“I have something for you.”

“You didn’t answer my question. How did you find me?”

“Your sister told me where to look.”

“Beth knows where I am? What do you want?”

“She saw you in the park. She followed you, but lost you in a crowd along Scottsdale Street. I want to talk to you.”

“What about?”

“Please open the door.”

The door opened a crack. One green eye inspected me from head to foot, resting on the briefcase I held in my left hand. She must have been satisfied with what she saw because the door opened wider.

“Come in,” she said, gesturing toward a straight back chair beside the window.

I sat down and placed the briefcase on my lap. I took a key out of my jacket pocket and opened the locks. I took out an envelope, “I work for the estate of James Dillier Throckmorton.” When Mary started to speak, I held up my hand. “You don’t know him, and you don’t know me. I’m merely the messenger. Someone wants you off the streets and in college where you belong. Open the envelope.”

Mary looked around the shabby room she could never make into a home. Her hands shook as she ripped open the seal. Inside was a cashier’s check. Her face paled, her shoulders straightened, and hope glistened in her eyes, as she counted the zeros on a one million dollar check.

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